Dr. Vasquez hasn’t texted or called since our tennis lesson last week, but he’s obviously a busy man, and it’s not like I’ve reached out, either. I could use the excuse of checking on his progress for the First Aid Course, but that only reminds me how much I still need to do for the upcoming open house.
Three weeks isn’t much time, but it also brings us right down to the wire, as I assured Jan we could hit 85 percent occupancy by the end of the summer. It’s honestly theonlyoption, considering there won’t be enough money to keep the property afloat after that, and I refuse to fail—not again.
Using the responses in my inbox, I finish calculating costs for alternative plans, but with so many decisions waiting on Jan, I find myself spinning my chair to face the golf course again.
At my old job, I rarely saw the great outdoors. My toes rarely touched sand, and at those events and parties at the beach, I distinctly remember being annoyed at the sinking of my heels.
I should’ve kicked them off, but the ankle strap’s persnickety, and when I mentioned I’d be faster if my feet were bare, my bossglared.
It did the trick—I moved so fast I sandpapered off a layer of skin.
A big part of me still craved that rush of adrenaline, but another part enjoyed strolling down the sidewalk and smelling the roses rather than bobbing and weaving around other disgruntled Miamians racing to the office.
Oh no. Am I growing too accustomed to a slower pace of life?
I used to literally hit the ground running, now I check off tasks at a steady but fairly lackadaisical pace. basking in the sunny view from inside an air-conditioned office while pondering how ridiculously excited I am to head to Arlene’s this evening to help get her ready and send her off on her big date.
It’s not so much a regret of hers I’m tackling, rather fanning the spark she forgot she had and reminding her she’s still got plenty of fire left.Two more hours, and we’ll all be at Vonetta’s and Gertie’s, laughing and chatting and boosting Arlene’s confidence.
Wait. Am I actually counting down to the weekend?
As the quiet seeps in and the refresh of my inbox fails to reveal anything new, I’m tempted to pull up my saved bookmarks and go searching through sites that’ll inevitably be bad for me.
I’ve avoided caving in to it for weeks, but justifications whirl through my head, of all the reasons Ishouldlook.
It’ll keep me on my game.
Prepare me for my next job.
Leave me more aware of trends.
I’m half-tempted to call up Ezekiel to ask if he’s come up with a grand gesture I’ll likely have to veto before suggesting others, but I’m not supposed to be helping him any more than I already have. That was the other tricky thing about boundaries—once I drew them, I needed to have the strength to stick to them.
Even if it means I don’t feel as valuable.
Then, in one of those rare moments that suggests the universe is actually listening, my phone chimes with a text from his Royal Highness himself.
King EZ just sent pictures of him and a few of his teammates at the Foster Fun Summer Sports Tournament, which I totally forgot was today. It’s bittersweet, seeing the event I set up for teens in foster care play out on the pages without me.
Pride quickly takes the lead, though, spreading a smile across my face as big as the grins of the teens in the pictures.
My chest knots at the shot with my former coworker plastered to EZ’s side, a little of my happy leaking out when I see the guy the firm’s replaced me with. He rubbed me the wrong way since my very first day, when he asked if I had a boyfriend before he asked my name.
For some reason, this feels like the greatest failure of all, knowing the biggest mansplainer in the office replaced me.
As if they need some dude-bro to handle a basketball player, like little ol’ me can’t remember all the rules when I still have the periodic table, quadratic equation, and every single track on Taylor Swift’s 1989 album memorized.
Ooh, I bet I can order the sheet music!It’s the first time I’ve experienced a rush of genuine excitement over the idea of learning a song on the piano inyears.
During my extra busy junior year of high school, after months of struggling through difficult pieces I held no passion for while my mother pointed out my mistakes, I gathered my courage and told her I didn’t want to play anymore—that I quit.
Before she stormed off to not speak to me for days, she yelled that one day, I’d regret it.
A decade later, and I’m as surprised as anyone that I do kind of miss it.
I also happen to have access to a piano and a bit of free time in the evening, although musically, my grandmother holds an even higher standard of perfection than Mom.
Still, it’s healthier than doomscrolling.
